


Find Peace

by orphan_account



Category: Fire Emblem: The Sacred Stones
Genre: Angst, M/M, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-08
Updated: 2017-07-08
Packaged: 2018-11-29 09:35:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11438121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Cormag and Artur go for a late night wyvern ride.





	Find Peace

Cormag’s homecoming had been less disheartening than expected. Perhaps because he’d been told the earthquake was coming, perhaps because he’d already steeled himself for everything. Glen’s death had left a hole that couldn’t close, but the rest of his heart was a fort. Much like Grado, it only need be rebuilt. Half the organ wasn’t in the ocean like his country, but he’d make do with what he has left.

 

It was little more than a few months when Cormag found himself shocked again, though perhaps for the better. Artur showed up at his-- thankfully, salvaged --home in the midst of wreckage with that same smile. They’d promised to meet again, when Grado was itself again. He has no hesitance with pulling the smaller monk in his arms, though scoldings bubble from his throat and out before he can stop it.  _ I told you to come when there was peace. Do you how intensely the land shakes? The bandits and monsters that roam the cracked land? How could you come here by yourself? Don’t you know how dangerous that is? _

 

And Artur had simply melted into the touch, replying that yes, he knew all of that. He’d returned to his village to find it safe and sound, and couldn’t stomach the thought of how ‘all the others’ might not have done the same. He’d decided then that he’d delay his moving to the capital, aiming to help his friend instead. And Cormag sighed, happy and disappointed all at the same time. He didn’t want him to be in harm’s way, but he couldn’t deny the demand for healers. And only furthered his hurt, being torn from his side when they parted ways.

 

It was a joyous reunion nonetheless. Like he had during the war, for Cormag and many, Artur was once again was nothing but unwavering support. The workload of recovery seemed, at the very least  _ seemed, _ so much lighter.

 

As it were, however, the return of a blue shade under his eyelids and growing paleness didn’t sit well with Cormag. A worn look all of them held, once or twice or forever. It was a look he had never managed to get rid of, despite Artur returning to the favor to him, to everyone threefold. Fourfold even. He was tired, he knew. And if he had the power, Cormag would send him back to Renais for his own safety. Someone who never meant, never wanted to be a soldier didn’t deserve to have to see all this. Not when the war was already over in technicality.

 

But for better or for worst, Artur had always been so persistent, and he would be back before Cormag could blink. So he accepts it, accepts that he can’t deny him and would just have to do what they can with the cards the Demon King dealt.

 

But he hated it, the nights when he woke up or came home to an empty bed. Artur would often be reading by candlelight, staring indescribably outside the window or pacing the home like a caged animal. Exhausted and restless at the same time, he knew the feeling well. Cormag had long since stopped seeing battles in his dreams, Artur wasn’t so lucky. Haunted, Cormag knew, by how much blood was spilled by his innocent hands.

 

Some nights he can convince him back to sleep, others they stay awake and slightly lost together. When they were worst, Cormag would take him by the hand and take him to the stables. Genarog was never pleased being woken up, but calmed nonetheless by the monk’s presence. And they’d take to the night sky, pretending they were staring upwards at stars and not at the low glow of fires across the horizon. At least, that’s how it was for him.

 

This was one such night, where he finishes putting Genarog to bed and returns to find his companion hasn’t done the same. Artur’s head is in his hand, staring with furrowed brows at the page of an open book. He isn’t reading it. At the sound of the door opening and the night’s air fighting the fireplace, he does look up and give a smile. Genuine, but taking all of his strength to manage.

 

“Again?” They don’t need to clarify, Cormag just offers a hand.

 

“You don’t need to…”

 

Yet despite his humbleness, Artur takes the offer and allows himself  to be pulled up, led outside to the stables. Genarog rumbles in complaint at being interrupted, just having gotten comfy. But the growl turns to a happy purr when Artur takes the scaled head in his hands and presses theirs together, mumbling an apology. It’s enough to make Cormag smile, ignoring the reality of the situation for just a moment.

 

Saddled and reined, Artur slips onto the wyvern first, and his hands hook at Cormag’s chest. The other wonders if he can feel the heat there, but puts the thought aside for his own sake. A few flaps of preparation and Genarog takes to the sky, cold wind whipping past them until he settles into a glide. When the air evens out and stops nipping at their skin, he looks below at the darkened town. What’s left of it, and what’s becoming of it. The efforts to rebuild his hometown was going well, but the destruction was still there. And no one rested for a moment, for the work had to be done or bandits could strike at any moment.

 

(Though it didn’t justify them, Cormag could feel for them as well. Bandits were often those with nothing, and he wondered what ‘survival’ was for them in this new world. He almost doesn’t want to know.)

 

It’s not completely dark, not yet. The sky is only a dark blue and a deep orange pierces it. The sun stays semi present over the horizon and he’s sure Artur’s gaze is on it, as he likes daytime much better. Not that he didn’t appreciate the night, as Cormag had learned fondly, the other much enjoyed gazing at and pointing out constellations. Maybe he wasn’t looking hard enough, but he could never see them, perhaps because it wasn’t where he was looking. He much preferred seeing the stars reflected on eyes. And on these rides sometimes he would ramble their meanings, but for now Artur is silent, head resting against the hard muscles of his back.

  
What exactly kept him awake like this, aside from guilt, Cormag didn’t and might never know. He would ask, but never force Artur to speak. He has this fair share of insecurities and the like he would never share. But he wanted so desperately to help, and would, even if it meant losing sleep on nights like this. Even if Genarog was grumpy in the morning and the manual labor was just that little more difficult.

 

“I was surprised when you came here.” Cormag says aloud, unsure if Artur’s can hear him. But the night is silent and he feels him look up, listening. “But I was more surprised that you came alone.”

 

“I can defend myself, it’s fine…”

 

“Not that.” Cormag sighs, unsure if he should bring this up. “Where’s Lute? I don’t think I ever saw you two apart.”

 

He was right to consider concealing his thoughts, because immediately he feels Artur’s features tighten, head still rested against his back. There’s a tense few seconds before an answer comes, quietly and almost covered by cicada chirps. “Travelling overseas.”

 

“Huh, would of imagined you’d go with her.”

 

“...I considered it, learning what the rest of the world had to offer.” The reply is slow and heavy, but all Artur had really spoken since the afternoon, a comfort for Cormag to hear. “We’d never known anything outside our village until the war...And that part was kind of wonderful, I’d never seen a desert or an ocean before.”

 

“Really?” Cormag replies with a light chuckle, though not before a nervous swallow. When Artur had first come to his side, he said he wasn’t aware Cormag lived so close to the sea, and he wasn’t sure how to tell him  _ that he didn’t _ .

 

“...I couldn’t leave while Renais was in ruins. Not after everything Lady Eirika had done for me.”

 

Cormag senses a story in the statement, but that would wait for another time.

 

“You at least know where she is, right?”

 

“Yes…We can speak, through magic.” Somewhere in the back of his memory, Cormag remembers the mention of such a technique, unique only to mages. With how much she bragged about her magic prowess, he wouldn’t be surprised his mage friend had figured such a thing out.

 

“Oh, that’s good. I’d worried you were going insane, talking to yourself now and then.”

 

Artur doesn’t laugh. The somber atmosphere stays. It was clear he must’ve missed her, it’s him nestling into the wyvern rider’s shoulder blades that signals this. Like he’d said, Cormag had never seen them apart, not for long. And as...unsettling as her presence was, he’d found her a fine person. However braggy. 

 

And a small part of him curses her for leaving Artur, someone like him, behind. The same kind of blame that was more emotional than logical, just as he’d blamed Glen. Blamed Glen for sparing Eirika. Blamed Glen for following orders. Blamed Glen for dying, for leaving him.

 

He wonders if Artur felt the same. He’d confided in Cormag that while the war ending was a blessing, it hurt to leave so many new friends, whom he’d grown so used to fighting beside. He wonders if Artur came all this way not to just to help, but for company. He supposes he should feel honored then that he came to  _ him _ , not stayed to Renais or defected to Jehanna. 

 

Cormag doubted it, thinking it wouldn’t be worth the trouble in anyone’s eyes to come all this way for a hardened soldier. And how could someone like Artur be lonely? 

 

He doesn’t have much time to think on it, as he feels the smaller hands in his grip loosen and holds them tight, an unconscious fear of Artur falling from the mount when he’d finally rested. He mutters a small order to Genarog and tugs the reins with his free hand, turning them. It was a short trip, never really wandering far from the small cottage he called home.

 

It’s only when he’s carrying Artur from the saddle to the bed that he sees his eyes swollen and raw, features sad and cheeks wet. But knows better than to mention it the next morning, instead focusing on removing his boots and making him comfortable in the aged sheets. He didn’t join him under the covers for fear of waking him, when sleep came so little he needed all he got. And it was too often they woke to the sound of screams and not birds. He settles for resting on top of them beside him, wishing fabric wasn’t the only boundary between them.

 

He wishes he could know those pains, wishes he could fix him. Wishes he could just tell Artur the truth as if he couldn’t die at any point and bring him more grief. He wouldn’t let his feelings be known, not until there’s peace.


End file.
